Part 13

Well, it is getting late and I must stop, but the history of Mexico is without exception the most fascinating, the most romantic, and the most improbable in the world; and the seed of Spanish civilization implanted in this marvelous land has produced a florescence so magnetic, so magical, that the dullest feel its charm. All that has been done for Mexico the Spaniards did, despite their cruelties, their greeds, and their passions. We, of the north, have used it only as a quarry, leaving no monuments to God nor testaments to man in place of the treasure that we have piled on departing ship or train. Now we seem to be handing back to Indians very like those the Spaniards found, the fruits of a great civilization, for them to trample in the dust. Let us _not_ call it human service.

_January 24th._

Von Hintze came in for a while this morning. Like all the foreign representatives, he is weary of his work here; so many _ennuis_, so much waiting for what they all believe alone can be the outcome now--American supremacy in some form.

Shots were heard in town last night. Dr. Ryan, who is making his home with us, thought it might be the long-threatened _cuartelazo_ (barracks’ revolution), and went out to see, but it turned out to be only a little private shooting. The Burnsides have gone to live at Vera Cruz.

_January 26th._

Only a word before beginning a busy day. I must go out to Chapultepec to see that the luncheon of twelve, for Hanihara and Cambiaggio, is all right. The town is filling with Japanese officers from the _Idzuma_, lying at Manzanillo. There will be a veritable demonstration for them, indicating very completely the anti-American feeling. There is an enormous official program for every hour until Friday night, when they return to their ship.

_Evening._

My luncheon for Hanihara went off very pleasantly, at Chapultepec. That restaurant is the knife with which I have cut the gordion knot of entertaining. The new Italian minister was there, the Norwegians, Mr. E. N. Brown, president of the National Railways, Parra, from the Foreign Office, and others. We reached home at four o’clock, and I drove immediately to the Garcia Pimentels, where Don Luis was waiting to show me some of the special treasures in his library. Up-stairs, the handsome daughters and their equally handsome friends, married and single, were sewing for the Red Cross. We meet there every Tuesday. Each daughter had a beautifully embroidered _rebozo_ thrown over her smart Paris gown _à la Mexicana_--heirlooms of the family.

The house is one of the noble, old-style Mexican edifices, with a large _patio_, and a fine stairway leading up to the corridor that winds around its four palm- and flower-banked sides. Large, handsome rooms, with pictures, rare engravings, priceless porcelains, and old brocades, open from the corridor. I merely put my head in at the door of the big drawing-room where they were working, as Don Luis was waiting for me in his library down-stairs. I spent a couple of delightful hours with him, among his treasures, so lovingly guarded through generations. Oh, those fascinating title-pages in reds and blacks, that thick, rich-feeling hand-woven paper, that changeless ink, fit to perpetuate those romantic histories and the superhuman achievement of the men of God! I could scarcely put down the beautifully written letter of Cortés to Charles V., wherein he tells of the Indians as he found them. They so closely resemble the Indians as _I_ have found them.

Many of Don Luis’s most valuable books and manuscripts were found in Spain, and his library of _Mexicana_ embraces everything obtainable down to our own time.[9] His wife is a charming woman, very _grande dame_, cultivated, and handsome. She and her daughters are always busy with countless works of charity. Just now they are busy making up little bundles of layettes for the maternity home. It does make one’s fingers nimble to see Indian women obliged to wrap their babies in newspapers!

I had just time to get home and dress for dinner at the British Legation, but we came away at half past nine, leaving the rest of the party playing bridge. I had on again the gray-and-silver Worth dress, but I feel sad without my black things.

_Evening, January 27th._

This afternoon I went with de Soto to see Mme. Lefaivre at the Museo Nacional, where she is copying an old Spanish screen. It is always a pleasure to go through the lovely, sun-baked _patio_, filled with gods and altars of a lost race. Many of them, found in the _Zocalo_, have made but a short journey to their resting-place. De Soto is always an agreeable companion for any little excursion into the past--though it isn’t the _past_ we are dreaming about, these days. And as for his looks, put a lace ruff and a velvet doublet on him and he would be a “Velasquez” of the best epoch.

Mme. Lefaivre, enveloped in an apron, was sitting on a little step-ladder before the largest screen I have ever seen, its eight mammoth leaves representing various amorous scenes, lovers, balconies, guitars, etc.--all most decorative and truly ambassadorial. I told her that nothing but the Farnese Palace would be big enough for it, and the light of dreams--the kind of dreams we all dream--appeared in her eyes. The big sala was getting a bit dim, so she left her work and we started for a turn through the museum. When we found ourselves talking of Huerta by the “Morning Star,” a mysterious, hard-faced, green god (his little name is Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli), I thought we might as well take a turn in the motor; so we went up to Chapultepec and continued the discourse under the cypresses, which are growing, though slowly, with the living events that alone really interest one. The past is for those with peace and leisure.

_Evening._

A quiet day, but we are distressed beyond words at the renewed reports of a lifting of the embargo on arms and ammunition for the rebels. I feel as if I couldn’t stand it, and N. even felt that he ought to resign if it happens. The ship of state is going so inevitably on the rocks. He will make some sort of protest to Washington against the advisability of this move. Villa’s cry is “On to Mexico,” and he may get there, or rather, here--if we decide to carry him.

It appears that he is becoming daily more intoxicated by the favors of the United States. No one is more surprised than he at his success with the powers that be, and as for the vogue he has with the confidential agents, they tell me his face is one broad grin whenever their names are mentioned. However, this doesn’t mean he is going to try to please them. Just now he wants Huerta’s head, but that foxy old head can have asylum here. Shouts and shots were heard an hour or so ago, but probably only from some Zapatistas near town.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] The celebrated _Arbol de la Noche Triste_ is an old, weather-beaten cypress, which has been cherished and doctored by botanical commissioners and outraged by mobs. Under it Cortés is supposed to have sat and wept as he saw defile before him the tattered remnants of his army after the terrible retreat from Tenochtitlan, July 2, 1520. There are three of these especially historic trees which survived the horrors of the Conquest--the others are the _Arbol de Montezuma_, in the Chapultepec park, and the great Tree of Tule, in Oaxaca, which sheltered Cortés and his venturesome company on their way to Honduras.--E. O’S.

[9] This noble house has since passed into alien hands, and the great library is scattered. Señora Garcia Pimentel was, fortunately, able to send a few of the most valuable manuscripts to England--the Cortés letters, the famous Motolinía manuscript, dedicated to the Conde de Benavente, a first edition of Cervantes, the “Dialogos” of Salazar, and a volume or two of Padre de la Vera Cruz and Padre Sahagun. She and her unmarried daughter took these away, concealed under shawls, when they were obliged to leave the house. There had been a sudden loud knocking at the door in the dead of night, followed by the entry of Carranzista officials. Madame Garcia Pimentel and her beautiful daughter were alone in the house at the time; the father and sons, in danger of their lives, had been secretly got to Vera Cruz, some time before.

The far-famed library of Casasus has also been scattered, its treasures destroyed. Sometimes a priceless volume has been bought for a few cents from a street vender, by some one on the lookout, but mostly these treasures have forever disappeared.--E. O’S.

XIII

Gamboa--Fêtes for the Japanese officers--The Pius Fund--The Toluca road--Brown, of the National Railways--President Wilson raises the embargo on arms and ammunition--Hunting for Zapatistas.

_January 29th._

Yesterday the handsome Mexican set came for bridge, and in the evening we went to dine at Señor Pardo’s house. He is the clever attorney for the “Mexican” railways. Federico Gamboa and his wife were there. Gamboa is most amusing, with one of those minds that answer to the point in conversation, what the French call _le don de la réplique_. He was Minister for Foreign Affairs last summer, and resigned to run for President, as choice of the Clerical party. Huerta said, quite frankly, of him to N. a few days ago, “I told him I liked him and wished him well, but if he had been elected President I should have had him shot.”

Gamboa’s answer to Mr. L. last August, though not satisfactory to _us_ when laid by Mr. Wilson before Congress, remains a dignified, clever, and unimpeachable _exposé_ of the Mexican situation from _their_ point of view, which is that the United States, by every international law, is unwarranted in interfering in their interior affairs, as these, however unfortunate, are those of a sovereign state. They never got over the fact that the communications Mr. Lind brought with him were tactfully addressed to no one in particular, and referred to the government as “the persons who at the present time have authority or exercise influence in Mexico.” They consider that if they even once allowed such counsel from the United States they would compromise indefinitely their destinies as a sovereign state.

As for the phrase “the United States will not hesitate to consummate matters, especially in times of domestic trouble, in the way that they, the United States, consider best for Mexico”--it is graven on the mind of every Mexican who can read and write. Concerning our professions of friendship, which left them decidedly cold, Gamboa neatly said that never could there be a more propitious time for displaying it, that we had “only to watch that no material or military assistance of any kind be given to the rebels who find refuge, conspire, and provide themselves with arms and food on the other side of the border.” He further quietly states that he is greatly surprised that Mr. Lind’s mission should be termed a “mission of peace,” as, fortunately, neither then nor to-day had there existed any state of war between Mexico and the United States. The whole document is the tragic and bootless appeal of a weak nation to a strong.

Gamboa has had numerous diplomatic posts. He was minister to Brussels and to The Hague, and special ambassador to Spain to thank the King for participation in the Centenary of 1910....

After the Pardo dinner, two bright-eyed, clear-voiced Mexican girls, one of them Pardo’s daughter, sang Mexican songs with the true beat and lilt to them. Hanihara was also there, listening to the music in the usual detached, Oriental manner. The Japanese officers are being tremendously _fêted_, fed by each and every department of the government, till I should think their abstemious “little Marys” would rebel.

After dinner we walked home, a short distance, in the mild night, under a strangely low and starry sky. It seemed to me that by reaching out I could have had a planet for my own. The streets were deserted, save for an occasional Mexican, hurrying home, with his scarf across his mouth. There is a tradition here about not inhaling the night air. Here and there a _guardia_ shivered in the shadows, as he watched his lantern, which he always places in the middle of the four crossings. One can walk with jewels gleaming, and without fear, under the Dictator.

Dr. Ryan left last night for Washington. I don’t like to interfere with any one’s _premier mouvement_, but I know it for an expensive, bootless trip. No one will care what he thinks about the certain consequences of the raising of the embargo.

The rebels have just destroyed twenty-two huge tanks of oil near Tampico, destined for the running of the railroad between San Luis Potosí and the coast. I think I told you Mr. Brown said that the gross receipts had never been so big on his lines as last month, in spite of the danger in traveling, but that they could not keep pace with the immense damage going on all the time. Mr. Brown is the self-made man of story. He began at the foot of the ladder and is now the president of the “National Railways”; quiet, poised, shrewd, and agreeable. Mexico owes him much.

_Evening._

The Mexican papers come out with the statement that President Wilson can’t raise the embargo on arms and ammunition without the consent of Congress, which, if true, removes it as an immediate calamity.

This morning they rang up from the American grocery to say that the stores ordered yesterday had not arrived, as the man who was delivering them was taken by the press-gang, with all the provisions. A nice way to popularize a government!

Nelson has been requested by the powers that be to use his influence about the release of a certain American, the suggestion being added that he should not be too cordial with Huerta in public, as the United States was on official, _not_ friendly terms with Mexico. The old man would shut up like a clam and never raise a finger for N., or any American, or any American interests, if N. did not treat him with _both_ public and private courtesy. In these difficult days the position here is almost entirely a personal equation. N. has danced the tight-rope, up to now, to the satisfaction of almost everybody, in spite of the inevitable jealousies and enmities. It is entirely due to N.’s personal efforts that the Pius Fund of $43,000, has just been paid; due to him that many prisoners have been released, and that many material ends have been gained for the United States.

I think history will testify that Huerta showed much tact in dealing with us. His latest remark is, “If our great and important neighbor to the north chooses to withhold her friendship, we can but deplore it--and try to perform our task without her.”

Elim asked me, yesterday, “Where is our Uncle Sam, that everybody talks about?” He thought he was on the track of a new relative.

_Later._

A military revolt is brewing here--Felicista. N. got wind of it. If it comes, they must give us Huerta, and have so promised. We have had comparative, very comparative, quiet for a few weeks, and now things are seething again.

There is a room here always ready, which we call _nacht asyl_, and various uneasy heads have rested there in the famous “bed of the murderess.” Yesterday I bought a lot of lovely dull blue-and-white _serapes_ for the floor and couch.

On returning from bridge at Madame Lefaivre’s, where I left de Soto losing with more than his usual melancholy distinction, I found the Japanese minister with the captain of the _Idzuma_, in full regimentals, come to call--but N. was out. The captain said he wanted to express especially and officially to N. his appreciation of all the courtesies he had received from Admiral Cowles, and the other officers of our ships at Manzanillo. He spoke French and English only fairly well, as they do. I was very cordial, of course, and said that in these difficult moments all must be friends, must stand by one another, and show mutual understanding of difficulties. As I looked at him I thought, for some reason, of the horrors suffered and the deeds of valor performed by his race in the Russo-Japanese War, without question or thought of individuals. He espied Iswolsky’s photograph and Adatchi showed him Demidoff’s picture, saying that Elim was his namesake. They never forget _anything_.

The officers had all been out to the celebrated pyramid of San Juan Teotihuacan to-day, with the Minister of Public Instruction. It is a fatiguing trip, but an excursion always arranged for strangers of distinction. (I made it with Madero, mounting those last great steps, exhausted and dripping, on his arm.) They, the Japanese, were going to the Jockey Club, where Moheno, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, is to give them a dinner. The government is so in debt to the various restaurants here that they couldn’t get credit for the dinner at Silvain’s, as first planned.

I met Lady Carden at bridge this afternoon. She feels badly at the way things have developed for her husband. He has been called to London “to report”; _à la_ Henry Lane Wilson to Washington, I suppose. Hohler, who was _chargé_ when we first came to Mexico, is already _en route_ from England to take over the Legation during Sir Lionel’s absence--but I suppose Sir L. will never return. I told Lady Carden to give Sir Lionel my best regards, and added that it wasn’t, by any means, _all_ beer and skittles at the Embassy.

Sir L. shouldn’t have tried, however, to “buck” the United States. All the representatives have become a bit more cautious as to how they approach “the policy,” since the unpleasant newspaper notoriety Sir Lionel and Paul May received. Lady Carden is not going, I am glad to say, and we are all making plans to console her for Sir L.’s absence.

_January 31st._

Your cable “Love” received yesterday. I sent a cable, “_Bene_,” in answer. I have been thinking all day of those hours, many years ago, when my precious mother was lying with me, her first-born, in her arms.

N. is in receipt of a proclamation from revolutionary agents in Mexico City. The part referring to foreigners states that any protection given by them to Huerta or to his intimates will result in their immediate execution, and that _no_ flag will be respected in such cases. It is one of those nice, little, confidence-inspiring documents which induce one to ponder on the Mexican situation, not as it might be or ought to be, but as it _is_. Its caption, “_La revolución es revolución_,” is completely expressive.

_February 1st. Afternoon._

A few lines while waiting for tea and callers. This morning we made a wonderful run out the Toluca road with Seeger and Mr. and Madame Graux, our Belgian friends, _Chemins de fer secondaires_, as we call them. After Tacubaya the road rises high above the city, and for miles we motored along the heights, through stretches of dazzling white _tepetate_ and pink _tezontle_, the buildingstones of the city from immemorial days. The road was fairly alive with Indians bringing in their wares, this Sunday morning. They came from Toluca, seventy kilometers distant, moving tirelessly over their roads with the quick, short Aztec trot, and bearing such loads of pottery, baskets, and wood, that nothing can be seen of them but their feet. This is also a Zapatista country, and we had provided ourselves with three pistols. High in the hills could be seen the smoke of camp-fires, Zapatistas _or_ charcoal-burners. It was on this road that the son of the Minister of War, Blanquet, was held up about three weeks ago. His party was stripped and its members sent home as they were born, even that last possible covering, the floor-rug of the motor, being removed.

However, beyond being stopped at intervals by _gendarmes_, who tried, unsuccessfully, to make us leave our pistols at the _jefetura_ of their little village, we were not interfered with. Our cry of _Embajada Americana_, though not over-popular now, had not lost all its potency. In spite of the dazzling sun it is very cold on the heights, and in the little village where we stopped to “water” our car a coughing, sneezing, sniffling crowd of half-naked, shivering Indians gathered around us, evidently suffering from one of those bronchial epidemics so prevalent in these thin, high atmospheres. I fear that our coppers, though acceptable, were not therapeutic, as, doubtless, they all rounded up at the nearest _pulquería_ after our departure. We could not decide to turn lunch-ward, but kept on and on, until we had dipped into the Toluca Valley as far as the statue of Hidalgo, commemorating the spot where he met the viceregal forces in 1821. It always seems to me a sad spot, for when the Spaniards fell, with the exception of Diaz’s thirty years, the last stable government of Mexico also fell.

At the base of the statue three Indian women were sitting--_enredadas_. Each had a baby slung over her back and a burden by her side, giving the scene the mysterious, changeless, lonely Indian note. In Mexico, nothing is ever missing from any picture to make it beautiful and peculiarly itself.

A very gratifying letter came to-day from Mr. John Bassett Moore, counselor of the State Department. There are so many difficulties, so many enmities ready to lift their poisoned heads, so many delicate transactions, so much hanging in the balance, that it is gratifying to have, sometimes, an appreciative word from headquarters. Also a very nice letter came from General Crozier. I am so glad of that Mexican visit of his two years ago. He will understand just what the situation is--and many things besides.

Nelson spent all Saturday morning getting the 1914 instalment of the Pius Fund, the twelfth payment since the Hague decision in 1902. Diaz intended to pay off the principal, but now, of course, the country is in no condition to do so. We went down to Hacienda (Treasury Department). I sat in the auto in the sun, in the historic _Zocalo_, from immemorial days the focus of Mexican events. The officials had only $37,000 of the $43,000, but told N. to return at half past twelve, and they would have the other six for him. I couldn’t help wondering where they got it. Finally it was all safely deposited in the bank. We then picked up the Graux at the Hotel Sanz and motored out for luncheon and golf at the Country Club.

_February 1st, 10.30_ P.M.

To-night has come the long-feared cable from Washington stating that the President intends to raise the embargo on arms and ammunition. The note was for Nelson’s special information, not for delivery to the Foreign Office yet, but the hour will come when he will have to gird himself to do the deed. It has been sent to every chancery in Europe, where it will raise a storm, to blow hard or not, according to the amount of material investments in Mexico. We scarcely know what to think; we are dazed and aghast. I am glad that a few hours, at least, must elapse before the facts will get out. I shall hardly dare to venture forth unveiled. Courteous as the Mexicans have been to Nelson and myself, some day, in face of the terrible catastrophes we have brought upon them, their patience must fail. This act will not establish the rebels in Mexico City or anywhere else, but will indefinitely prolong this terrible civil war and swell the tide of the blood of men and women, “and the _children_--oh, my brothers.”

I think Wilhelmstrasse, Downing Street, Quai d’Orsay, Ballplatz, and all the other _Ministères_ will pick many a flaw in the President’s document; but what can they do except anathematize us behind our backs?

_February 2d._

My first thought, on awaking this morning, was of the irremediable catastrophe threatening this beautiful land. Nelson says he thinks Huerta will disregard it, as he has disregarded all other moves of Mr. Wilson; but it can be nothing but a further source of terrible embarrassment.

_February 3d, 11_ A.M.